“You taught me well,” Trish says. “I can’t sleep without lavender in my diffuser, and I haven’t been sick in a year since I started dabbing tea tree on my nostrils every day.” She stops and looks at my case. “That said, my collection of oils isn’t as big as yours. You win.”

“Nate used to call all of this BS,” I say, opening my kit filled with small bottles of oils. “He thought it was nonsense.”

“And that’s why you’re onto something here,” Trish says. “Women are sick and tired of being told by men what’s appropriate or logical. I mean, they’ve had control of everything for a long time, and how’s that worked out?”

I laugh and look through my oils.

“Okay,” I start, pulling out my alphabetized oils to read their labels. “How about a little allspice to strengthen our will and determination in gaining our objectives? A touch of amber to protect us from ill will and bad luck. Some balsam fir to break up negative conditions. A little bergamot for success and money, and some camphor for harmony.” I continue my search. “Chamomile attracts good luck and money, and—Oh!—champa will bring balance and clarity and help create a calming and sacred atmosphere.” I laugh. “How about some cinnamon orange to enhance success, love and lust.”

“That never hurts,” Trish says.

“Geranium rose will break all hexes and is perfect for blessing new businesses,” I continue. “Lavender—your favorite, Trish—brings tranquility and peace at home, and I’ll also add a little violet for peace and calm and to protect against evil. It changes luck!”

“I think the sage is too wet to catch fire now,” Trish laughs. “Okay, what do we do now?”

I grab a lighter and hold it to the sage. After a few tries, it begins to smoke. I use the feather to waft smoke over our bodies. “I’m shocked we didn’t burst into flames considering all the liquor in us.”

Trish coughs dramatically as smoke wafts around her face, making her resemble an apparition. “I think a bad spirit already escaped from my body,” she says. “I think I need a drink.” She grabs her wine and begins to walk.

“No,” I say. “We have to walk around the cottage counterclockwise. And chant.”

I begin to walk toward the living room, and Trish puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Air, fire, water, earth,” I chant. “Cleanse, dismiss, dispel.”

After a few times, Trish catches on and chants with me in between sips of wine. We make our way around the first floor—Sonny in tow—before moving to the second, then the renovations in the attic and, finally, the turret.

“What about the fish house?” Trish asks. “Where you found the time capsule.”

We head outside and into the fish house. When I enter, the sage bursts into flame.